watchkeeper
by electrikitty
Summary: some parts of history are always glossed over and forgotten. like war. but the moments spent praying for loved ones to return? those, you can never forget. / the royal tutor / one-shot / originally from 'royal tutor collection'


**Watchkeeper**

_A piece set about a year after Viktor's coronation, est. 1860s._

On answering the door with ink-stained fingers, Heine already knew what Viktor was going to say.

He knew from the headlines printed on the newspapers, the ones he'd just barely learned to read. The headlines that had devoured the tidings of the king's coronation and marriage like a ravenous blizzard. He knew from the platoons of soldiers that trod the snowy streets outside the boardinghouse where he lived. And he knew from the pained light in Viktor's eyes.

The boy king rested a hand on the doorframe, and tried to smile.

'…Looks like I'll be going off to war.'

A beat of silence passed.

And Heine closed his eyes. Because there was nothing he could do this time. Not against the might of empires and armies. He was just a… retired street thief who knew how to fight dirty. He wasn't a soldier, and he was none of the things Viktor was. He wasn't strong, skilled in warfare, or the leader of an army. Viktor was the one who had to take the war to the nations pressing in on their borders, before the war came to Glanzreich. There was nothing he could do to keep his friend safe this time.

It stung. Badly.

Heine said nothing for a moment. He slipped his hands into the pockets of the rough coat he wore even in his apartment, so bitterly cold this winter was. He couldn't say what he wanted to say, the words coming to his lips as though filtered through a sieve. Forget learning how to read. He barely knew how to talk.

'…Don't get shot again, Your Highness. I won't be there to watch your back this time.' He lowered his gaze. '…Not that it did you any good back then.'

Heine locked his fingers through the sash draped over Viktor's uniform, the other hand on Viktor's arm because he couldn't reach his friend's shoulder. Gold braid, red velvet. Medals he didn't know the names of. 'You come back,' he whispered. 'Promise me.'

Never had he wished so much that he was taller. That he wasn't all sharp elbows and no words and so little to give. So little to give in comparison to how much Viktor had given him in the past. It was selfish to ask this of him. Heine couldn't even read and write well enough to send him a letter in return.

It was freezing, and the cold vibrated in their bones. Shivering like the icicles that trembled amidst the endless processions marching through the streets, and they both pretended as though they couldn't hear the kingdom gearing itself for war all around them. Viktor placed a hand on Heine's shoulder, as though the effectiveness of his answer depended on his hand being in exactly the right place. 'It's all right, Heine.'

'I'm not kidding, Viktor.' Heine's fingers trembled, just slightly. A tremble that made him grit his teeth, that he wished he could cut out of his hands with a knife. 'I need you to promise me. Please.'

Viktor touched a hand to the medallion on his chest, and said, 'I'll come back. I'll swear even it on my crown, if you like.'

But even if he crossed his heart and hoped to die, they both knew that Viktor might not come back in one piece. He could come back broken. He could come back studded with shrapnel.

He could come back in a coffin.

'You needn't worry.' Viktor laughed. 'I imagine they're going to want to keep me away from the front lines. It would be in poor taste if I got myself killed less than a year after taking the throne, you know. Not exactly how I want to go down in the history books.'

Heine managed to laugh too, but it felt like swallowing broken glass. 'Mm.' A button on Viktor's coat grazed Heine's temple, and his fingers gripped velvet and gold. 'I mean it, Viktor. This kingdom needs you. And I… need…'

_Because you're my "everything." As pathetic as that sounds, as much as I'd rather die than admit it. You're the reason I'm alive, and I'd rather die than watch you die again. I'm just one small piece of your world, but you're my "world" in its entirety. Please don't disappear. _

_I'm begging you. _

The silence was broken by a clock striking the hour in Wienner. A toll, exacting payment from all who heard it. Viktor looked back, and a wave of soldiers marched down the street down the street. Heine unconsciously gripped his sleeve, cutting his fingertips on gold braid. The clanging of the clock bells echoed like slamming doors. The carriage driver standing beside the royal carriage motioned sharply, and Heine knew they had little time left.

He choked down everything he needed and wanted to say, and said, 'Goodbye, Viktor—'

'You'll have me, Heine.' Blue flames flickered in Viktor's eyes. He didn't move, didn't step away. 'You have me, and I'll come back to you. Just like always.' He rested a hand on his heart. 'I promise.'

Heine tried to smile. 'Promise me no promises, Your Majesty. You don't know if you'll be able to keep them.'

'I'll keep this one if it kills me.'

'Then write me up an invitation to your funeral first, because otherwise I'll have to gatecrash it so I can yell at you in person.'

The icicles dripped and froze, in a rhythm, accented with laughter that burned and ached in their chests. It was a mystery.

_Why do we try so hard to laugh when it causes us so much pain?_

The carriage was still waiting at the bottom of the steps. Viktor hesitated. 'I had something I wanted to ask you, before I went.'

'What is it?'

'I was wondering if you'd… pray for me. While I'm gone.'

'Pardon? Me?' Heine pointed to himself, just to be certain. 'I-I mean, if you wish it so then of course, but why m—'

Viktor winked. 'Shh. Besides, I seem to recall someone praying for me when I needed it most. And it seemed to work—because I'm still here, am I not?'

It took Heine a moment to grasp what he meant. Then embarrassment flamed under his skin, and he wished for the wooden planks of the boarding house steps to give way and swallow him whole. At some point, in some choked, broken conversation, he must have let slip his promise he'd made to God in order to beg for Viktor's life. He grimaced, and let it go.

It didn't feel real. Viktor was the king of the realm. He could have the high priest of the church pray for him, or have all the king's horses and all the king's men protect him. Yet this was all he asked for. All he wanted.

He always asked for so little—now, and even back then—but no matter what, Heine would wring blood, sweat, and tears from his heart and soul to make it happen.

'I will,' he said. 'I'll pray for you every day, and you'll be on my heart always until the day you come home.' He smiled faintly. 'Though I don't know what good it will do.'

'Your Majesty,' the coachman said. 'You're expected back at the palace.'

Viktor nodded, yet his gaze was still fixed on Heine. 'I think it will do more good than you know. Just as you've done more for me than you know. You've taught me how to fight, and you've fought for me.'

'You were the one who fought for _me_, Viktor.'

'Really? Because they say that prayer is warfare, don't they?' Viktor smiled. 'Could I ask you to fight for me one more time, old friend?'

'Always.' _No matter the weapon, no matter the time, always._

'Your Majesty, you _need_ to go.'

Viktor ran a hand down the boardinghouse's stair railing. If he weren't wearing gloves, then it would have burned his palm. His eyes flickered. Trying to think of something to stay that didn't involve death and life-long debts. 'Good luck with your studies.' He smiled a little. 'Work hard.'

'I'll try.' Heine hesitated. Then slowly lifted a hand, touching two fingers to his brow in a salute.

He wasn't a soldier. But since when did that stop him from fighting?

'May God keep you safe,' he whispered.

A smile, a real one, creased the corners of Viktor's eyes. He returned the salute. 'Thanks, soldier.'

And he was gone, stepping through the snow and the crowds of soldiers and disappearing from sight.

Heine closed the door. Then he returned to his work. And as evening fell, he whispered prayers, and he prayed that God would listen.

It had been a lonely time even before Viktor had left. Less than a year ago, Heine gone through one of the darkest times of his life, coming out of it with nothing more than a letter of pardon and the resolution to become a teacher.

He prayed through the day, while studying. He prayed as the candles on his desk burned out in the dark.

He prayed alone while the kingdom went into uproars over news from the frontlines. He prayed during sleepless nights, when an unshakeable feeling told him that Viktor needed it more than ever.

He prayed during a sickening time when rumours flooded the papers that the king had gone missing-in-action.

He prayed that the kingdom's newly-born prince would still have a father by the time it was all over.

He prayed that the kingdom's queen would have the grace and strength to keep things together in the kingdom as war rumbled at their borders.

He prayed as the seconds, minutes, hours, and days ticked by, turning into weeks, months, and years. He prayed, and waited, and waited, and marked the time with attempts at letters that were redirected, or lost, or sent back, and eventually lost in the collapsing war postal system.

He was praying five years later when he heard that the war was ended and the soldiers were coming home.

And he said a prayer of thanks on hearing the sound of carriage wheels, and he ran, and opened the door to see Viktor ascending the boardinghouse steps.

Viktor grinned. 'Got your teaching license yet?'

Heine arched an eyebrow. 'Do I look like I'm the kind of person who could attend a government-run institution long enough to get a teacher's license, you idiot?'

And with the barest hint of a smile, Heine let gravity take his hands and yank him down the steps, let Viktor catch him, and the two of them spun around in dizzy circles that abruptly ended when they crashed into a lamppost with a clang and spilled into the snow, laughter spilling into the cloudy sky.

And Heine closed his eyes and whispered, 'Welcome home.'

_The End_

* * *

**A/N:** Shoutout to Seisuke Seirin for all the love they showed this story when I first published it (and when I was still wondering if anyone would actually like this totally and utterly random little piece). Reviews welcome, and thanks for reading!


End file.
